


A Spell to Save a Life

by Paia_Loves_Pie



Category: Practical Magic (1998), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Practical Magic Fusion, Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV) Fusion, Character Death, Domestic Violence, Epistolary, M/M, Magic, Non-Linear Narrative, Sherlock and Mycroft are ride or die, Situational Irony, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-12-28 02:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie
Summary: In which Mycroft Holmes mails a spell, falls in love, defies a curse, saves his brother, and kills a guy (twice. kind of.)Not in that order.A Practical Magic Mystrade AU (that no one asked for but several people were very enthusiastic about)





	1. Pawn to E5

_ Sunday, October 1, 1978 - Salem,  _ _Massachusetts_

Mycroft swiped away a tear as he angrily mashed the pestle into the mortar. The dry herbs were crushed to powder and the sharp smell penetrated his stuffy nose. The grinding motion of his arms made the stool wobble under his feet, but he didn’t have a sturdier platform with which to reach the worktop just yet. He needed this done, and done quickly, to protect himself. When he was ready, he’d protect Sherlock too. One never knew when true love might strike, and he had to fend it off, just in case. Caring was not an advantage - neither of them would fall victim to the curse if he had anything to say about it and - more than other boys - he had a few tools at his disposal. He aimed to use all of them this night.

He set the pestle aside and carefully put a silver bowl filled with water in the center of his worktop, where he had carefully crafted a star from white chalk. A little had gotten on the cuff of his pajama top, but he wasn’t worried - it would brush away. He hadn’t wanted to wake Sherlock by dressing before he snuck out of their room and out to the greenhouse. The old floor was creaky, but he could tell Sherlock was sleeping hard, a slight snore giving away his stuffy sinuses from crying.

On the worktop, he placed one white candle at the top of the star and one on each base point. The two red ones went to either side. Then he lined up the ingredients he had collected carefully, in order of use. Tidiness had been drilled into him. Usually while baking cookies, but magic required many of the same disciplines.

He cleared his throat and picked up the white rose petal, dropping it into the water, then struck a match, lighting the white candle at the top of the star. The match was dropped into the water, hissing as it was snuffed.

“He’ll be faithful, and love unconditionally,” he said quietly, but firm. It was practically a given, but he’d followed Uncle Rudy’s clients enough to know that a love spell didn’t guarantee a good match. You had to word it carefully. He had to identify him first. 

He picked up the deathwatch beetle and placed it in the bowl where it floated on its back - its carapace acting like a boat, then lit a red candle, moving clockwise around the star. The second match was added to the water next to the first one.

“He'll know death,” he said grimly, swiping another tear away. If it was coming for them anyway, best to be prepared. He wanted someone who knew what this aching agony inside felt like.

He picked up the sprig of thyme and floated it in the water that had begun to spin gently clockwise, lit another white candle, and dropped the third match.

“He’ll be a protector, courageous and strong.” If they were both to be in danger because of Mycroft, he supposed they needed to be able to defend themselves. A sturdy person, a helper, but good with weapons, he supposed.

“He’ll live among the stars,” He said, setting a star anise floating among the circling ingredients, the silver bowl shining brighter as the light of the candles reflected back to him. The third white candle was lit. He wanted them as far away from him as possible - safest for them, and for him. If they never met, all for the better.

He tugged his silver ring off his finger - it sank heavy to the bottom of the bowl with a metallic clunk, and the water went still. He lit the last red candle, adding that match to the water where it lay dully on top of the rest of the floating items, smoldering gently. 

“He’ll be made of silver,” he said impulsively, throwing out something as impossible as possible, so he could be sure that none of this would come to pass. People weren’t made of silver. They didn’t live in outer space. If he wasn’t alive in the first place, then Mycroft couldn’t make him die.

Then he gathered up the bowl in his hands and blew out the candles. Then he carefully stepped down from the bench, grabbed the mortar and its contents, and walked out into the front garden. 

He trod gently out to the mailbox, (so that his message would be sent out into the universe properly) and set everything down on the ground, careful not to spill. He used his hands and dug a small hole at its base, grimacing as dirt shoved up under his nails, then tipped the water and all its contents in the divot before covering it all with soil. The ground cloves were last, spread overtop - a binding measure to make sure the spell stuck.

When he was done, he heaved a sigh of relief - it was finished. He had bound himself to a figment, so he would never fall in love, and in turn no one else would die from the curse. It would end with him. With Sherlock. No more. 

His father’s death of his father had been unexpected. They were always unexpected. The death beetle had been creaking all morning. His mother had frantically searched the house in a panic - trying to find it, trying to stop it. 

He was killed in a freak accident. His head had been cracked open by a falling hammer as he unwisely walked below a workman’s platform next to the pharmacy. It was hardly a ladder, but still, folks were likening it to a bad luck death. Mycroft found the beetle the next day, lying dead next to his father’s pocket watch. After months of talk, his mother had simply wasted away, growing listless and pale. Willing herself out of existence until her body followed suit. 

Broken heart, said Mrs. Hudson. But Uncle Rudy disagreed, saying he believed in the Owens curse. It was said that the women of the Owens family were destined to fall in love - instantly and completely. But that their beloved would suffer an untimely death. A curse from their ancestor who had been betrayed by her own beloved. The curse had backfired and instead of saving them from ever falling in love, it had doomed them all. For generations, anyone who had fallen in love with an Owens woman had died. 

Mycroft knew full well that the curse might affect him differently. For one, he wasn’t an Owens woman. In a desperate attempt to divert the curse, his mother, for the first time in generations, had taken her husband’s name. His father was a Holmes, and so he was a Holmes. Secondly, in a rare turnabout, he was also the first male to be born to an Owens woman in nearly 400 years. He had no maternal uncles, great uncles, or male cousins whatsoever. Sherlock had been doubly a surprise, and his great aunts were still gossiping about What It Might Mean. Thirdly, even at the age of 10, he was entirely aware that marrying a woman was likely not in his future. His own inclinations had been solidly put to rest after he spent a summer mooning over Robert Jeffries in his fourth grade class last year before coming to his senses. 

Still, it was best to be prepared. He knew if the curse took hold, he would fall instantly in love.He couldn’t change that part. He knew the rules. But he could make it impossible to find his true love, by instead binding himself to an impossible man - one who couldn’t possibly exist, and thus, he would thwart a destiny he didn’t want - saving two lives in the process.

Sherlock though - that would take some more doing. He wasn’t sure his attempt would work, and thought to cover his bases by trying a separate variation, instead. Perhaps later, one attempt out of the two would work. He wasn’t arrogant enough to assume that curses couldn’t find a way. But perhaps he could delay it for a while.

He had a plan, though. He would make it so that Sherlock  _ couldn’t _ fall in love with someone. You couldn’t fall in love if you were already in love, already devoted. No, for Sherlock, he’d bind him to something else. He’d have to put some thought into the wording so he didn’t “marry” his brother, not yet 3 but already precocious, to the wrong career. 


	2. Knight to H3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, friends.
> 
> Please make note of some new tags for this chapter:
> 
> CW: partner abuse, death, murder consistent with the source material
> 
> Please let me know if you feel there's something else I should include.

_Thursday, October 1, 1998 _

Mycroft woke abruptly out of a sound sleep. The house was quiet and still - hushed, even outside. He checked the clock - 2:00. Only been asleep for a few hours, then. His skin prickled under the covers - the air held a waiting quality to it, listening.

He rubbed his eyes and tossed aside the cover to reach for his trousers - he wouldn’t rest until he’d seen for himself that everything was alright, and at worst, a midnight walk around the property wouldn’t hurt anything.

The phone rang through the downstairs, echoing up the hallway.

Mycroft quickly climbed out of bed, sleep rapidly clearing from his brain. He yanked on his trousers and snagged yesterday’s sweater from the hamper. The ancient floor squeaked under his feet, but Uncle Rudy and Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind the interruption. Middle of the night disruptions were the norm in this house.

He stumbled down the stairs, pulling his sweater over his head, and picked up on the sixth ring.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was shaky and small - uncertain on the crackling phone. Mycroft’s body tensed. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I’m at a Motel 6 off Route 95. Can you… would you come get me?” His tone was hushed and hurried. 

“I’m on my way. Stay put, stay safe, remember your baritsu.” Mycroft hung up the phone and tossed his coat on, jamming his feet into a pair of loafers, and heading to his car. 

The air was chill when he arrived twenty minutes later, still dark outside, and he cut his headlights as he pulled in, not wanting to alert anyone in case someone was waiting for him. Sherlock would know his car immediately. The red neon sign flickered in the darkness, casting a precarious glow around him as he searched the darkness for signs of Sherlock. Or trouble. 

He jumped out of his skin as a hand slammed against the passenger window. Sherlock. His hands scrabbled at the door pull and Mycroft reached over to unlock it in a hurry. 

“Get in, get in!” 

Sherlock heaved himself into the seat and quickly flattened the chair backward, ducking his head below the sightline of the window. A large angry purple bruise marred his cheekbone. Mycroft was incensed.

“Sherlock, what on Earth?! What have you gotten yourself into? What did he do to you?”

“It’s a long story but suffice it to say that Trevor wouldn’t take no for an answer, and when I told him I wasn’t in love, he went crazy!” he hissed. “He said I’d stolen his drugs and I was just using him, and then.. And then.” He stopped and took a long shaky breath, collecting himself. “So then I palmed some belladonna in his beer and locked myself in the bathroom and turned on the shower. I crawled out the window and luckily, I still had my emergency payphone money in my shoe, but all my stuff is still in there. My knapsack. I can’t leave without it - I’ve got evidence in there. I didn’t want to go back in straight away but now that you’re here, I have backup.” Sherlock’s voice increased in volume until he was finished, a crazed expression on his face that Mycroft knew all too well. 

He’d been dragged along on more than one ridiculous scheme and it never ended well. Not for the first time, he experienced mild regret at his seven-year-old self who thought it was a great idea to make Sherlock fall in love with his work. It was a desperate bid to save his life, but how could he have known that being “wedded to his work” would cause Sherlock to pursue his infatuation with complete and utter disregard for his own wellbeing. At least he wasn’t obsessed with _ Victor _.

Mycroft shook his head, knowing that there was no discouraging Sherlock now. 

“Alright. I’ll pull around front. Hopefully you’ve dosed him well enough that you can get in and out - it’s been long enough for it to take effect. Go grab your things, and I’ll keep the engine running. Quickly, if you please.”

Sherlock popped his seat back up - such a drama queen - and crept out of the car door and around the back of the motel where, presumably, the bathroom window was still open. 

Mycroft eased the car toward the front of the motel where he hoped Sherlock might exit and they could get away quickly. He waited a couple of minutes, timing him silently in his head, hoping this went smoothly. He was glad Sherlock had called him rather than taking his chances with hitchhiking - especially considering he’d left his wallet and coat inside. It was much too cold to be out in the dark without any ID - a recipe for danger. And Sherlock had a way of being...enticing. His charm had gotten him into (and out of) a fair number of difficulties before, but it couldn’t solve everything.

The front door of the motel room flew open with a bang and Sherlock came stumbling out of it backward, coat and satchel in his hands. Sherlock was holding them outstretched in front of him, defensive. Victor advanced toward Sherlock, gun in hand, pointed at him. His face was twisted with rage as he stumbled forward. His balance was clearly affected by the poison Sherlock had slipped him, but it hadn’t incapacitated him the way they’d hoped. Sherlock must have awoken him as he gathered his belongings. 

Mycroft stayed in the car, not wanting to startle the man into firing. All he could do was watch in horror.

At once, Sherlock dropped his things and executed a picture-perfect roundhouse kick to Victor’s head. His long legs snapped the man’s head back and Victor dropped like a stone. Mycroft was at once smug and relieved. 

Until he realized that Victor Trevor was no longer breathing. 

Mycroft jumped out of the car, engine still running, and ran around to check the man’s pulse. His body was utterly still. The angle of his neck was a bad sign.

“Pop the trunk,” Sherlock hissed, eyes wide with panic. 

Mycroft set his jaw, and nodded shortly. He opened the trunk and quickly returned to the body. He put his hands underneath the man’s arms, and Sherlock grasped his knees and they heaved him into the back and shut it, hiding the evidence from view.

Sherlock whirled around and ducked back into the motel room as Mycroft tossed Sherlock’s knapsack and coat into the back seat. Sherlock returned in a moment with a few items and Victor’s car keys. 

“I’ve made it look like he left in a hurry. I’ll drive Victor’s car so they’ll think he left in the night. We can ditch it later, toss his stuff.”

Mycroft nodded - they didn’t have time to argue about it right now. He put his foot down on the pedal and they eased the cars out of the parking lot as nonchalantly as possible, given they had just inadvertently committed a murder, and were now covering it up. 

Nothing in his life up until this point had prepared him for his current scenario. He had spent so much time preventing his own death, he hadn’t given much thought to preventing accidental murder. 

He resisted the urge to drive faster. Getting pulled over with a dead body in the car wouldn’t help them now. But he hadn’t gotten this far keeping Sherlock from harm only to see him end up in jail for the rest of his life just because some drunkard lowlife couldn’t handle rejection. He would figure it out. Fix it. He wasn’t the son of an Owens woman for nothing. 

They arrived home, and ran the cars up the drive quietly, cutting the lights to minimize any disturbance. It was still dark outside. Luckily both Uncle Rudy and Mrs. Hudson were late risers. The two had met many years ago at a performance. Martha had been dancing in an earlier act, and noticed Rudy was having a wardrobe malfunction. A quick safety pin exchanged and a touch up to Rudy’s make-up, and they had been fast friends ever since. (Rudy had come from a long line of witches, but even families practicing witchcraft in the 60s didn’t always tolerate cross-dressing. Hypocrites.) The two of them, after long years of show business, were late to bed and late to rise. 

Mycroft pulled around the side of the house near the greenhouse in the sizeable yard. Unusual to have a lot this large in the city, but they’d had difficulty keeping neighbors, and no one was particularly jumping at the chance to live near all the graveyards. Mycroft allowed himself a smug smile. They’d ended up buying up neighboring lots just to get some privacy. 

The yard was sheltered on that side by hedges they’d planted to keep out mischievous children. Everyone had wanted a look at the witch’s children and his grandmother had disabled the doorbell many years ago when his own mother had been small - after too many ding-dong-ditch pranks. Mrs. Hudson had never needed a doorbell to know when visitors were on the way anyhow. 

They parked and got out of the cars. 

“We need to wake up Rudy and Hudson - they’ll know what to do.” Uncle Rudy and Mrs. Hudson were strong magical practitioners, but he knew they wouldn’t bring a man back to life once he was already dead. He knew… because he’d already asked. 

“They won’t, Sherlock. You know they won’t.” 

His creeping grief settled in his chest, tightening his throat. When Michael died, he’d been devastated… and desperate. Anything to bring him back, but they had refused. Said they wouldn’t - that no such spell would return his Michael to him. That he’d return, but it wouldn’t be the Michael he knew. Mycroft was insistent and angry for days, but Uncle Rudy and Mrs. Hudson had held fast.

Sherlock had a strange look on his face. 

“Won't? Not ‘can’t’?” he clarified.

“I…” Mycroft stumbled. “Oh. Sherlock...you know why they won’t. It won’t be Victor that comes back...it’ll be...something else.”

“I don’t _ care _ what he comes back as, Mycroft! I just need him to _ come back _ long enough to drive his car elsewhere and die _ somewhere else _.”

“Stay here,” Mycroft instructed as he wheeled around and ducked into the greenhouse, grabbing supplies along with the house’s Book of Spells. Every witch’s house had one - full of generations of spells passed down, along with snarky notations and corrections along the way, substitutions for ingredients that were harder to find now than in 1604, and some occasional spills as any good cookbook accumulates after years of use. 

He had read the book many times, front to back, although he’d been eighteen before Rudy un-stuck some of the more dangerous spell pages for him. He was sure it was here, somewhere. Why this spell was included in the book he had no earthly idea, and it certainly smacked of bad magic. He knew the repercussions - this wasn’t going to end well, but he was desperate. He hadn’t come this far trying to save Sherlock’s life only for him to end up in jail now. He set his jaw and flipped through until he found it - the Lost Souls spell. 

Quickly he gathered the ingredients onto the worktable, then thought better of it and put them in a basket to take outside. No need to pollute the greenhouse space with what was sure to have noxious after effects. It would dissipate better in the open air, hopefully before Rudy and Mrs. Hudson noticed what had happened (utterly unlikely). These things had a way of lingering, like a skunk spray. 

Black candles, toad skin paste (he always felt a bit silly whenever a spell called for toads), needles, ash, silver knife, salt, and white chalk. For such a backwards spell, it was surprisingly uncomplicated to cast. In the end, it was the intent that mattered. 

Sherlock had pulled Victor out of the trunk and laid him out on the grass. They didn’t have time to wait for dawn - helpful when trying to reach between veils and messing about with stages of transition - that was hours away. They’d have to hurry. 

Mycroft handed the book to Sherlock - Mycroft was the more powerful, but Sherlock had a way of being..._ convincing _. Making spells work that generally shouldn’t be as effective. With his unruly black hair and pale skin, Sherlock always looked more like a typical witch than Mycroft’s freckles and receding hairline. More like an accountant than a potioneer, he thought with an eyeroll. 

He quickly cut down the center of Victor’s shirt, parting it to bare his chest. Then with the ash and chalk, he sketched a star as accurately as he could, making sure there were no gaps, points evenly spaced. He handed the salt to Sherlock, who circled the body, creating a gruesome outline in the grass, like a policeman’s chalk outline. Appropriate, for a crime scene, Mycroft thought. Although hopefully they would undo some of that crime now. 

Ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest, Mycroft dabbed a bit of paste on each eyelid, and put a match to the candle, and then they were ready. He made eye contact with Sherlock, and held the candle out over the center of the body, Mycroft knelt on one side, and Sherlock on the other. They both grasping the candle in their right hand, Mycroft’s on top. He was taking the brunt of this spell (hopefully). Sherlock began the incantation as Mycroft took the needle and pierced first one eye, and then the other. As their words rose and wound around in the space between them, a wind carried their voices upward, shifting leaves in its wake, then snuffed the candle. 

Victor’s eyes popped open. 

The sclera was red where the blood vessels had burst. His expression was crazed and manic. No doubt being rudely dragged backward from death was a somewhat alarming experience. Breath rattled wetly in his chest as he sucked in a lungful of air. His arms flailed widely, grasping. One hand landed on Sherlock and clutched to his wrist with a strength that contradicted what one might expect from a guy who had until very recently been postmortem. 

“You little _ bitch _ !” he spat with venom. “I’ll teach you to say no to _ me! _” 

His fingernails dug sharply into the pale, tender skin of Sherlock’s forearm and Sherlock winced in pain, attempting to scrabble away from the grip. He was stuck fast, the strength in Victor was preternatural. Victor’s other hand flew up to grasp Sherlock around the neck, choking him. Sherlock was taken by surprise, and fell backward. Sherlock was, despite his wiry frame, quite strong, but Victor’s stranglehold wouldn’t be budged. Sherlock gasped ineffectively for air as his face turned red. He kicked out at Victor’s body, but the blows did nothing. 

Mycroft looked on, first in alarm, then in growing horror as he realized his brother was being slowly strangled to death. He figured at this point, it really couldn’t get any worse, so he grabbed the silver knife from their array of tools, and with one swift strike, plunged the blade into Victor’s heart. 

Slowly, like a falling tree, Victor’s grasp loosened and he slumped heavily to the ground. 

Dead.

...Again. Mycroft wondered if the judge would double his sentence for killing the same guy twice. (He didn’t intend to get Sherlock involved in any of this, fully willing to take the blame for both attempts).

Sherlock heaved in air as he soothed the skin around his neck, one hand on his chest, rubbing his sternum. Mycroft soothed his brow with a handkerchief and stared dully at the body. He looked upward, as though pleading, then, with a long-suffering sigh, he got to his feet, went back into the greenhouse, and returned with two shovels. 

They picked a spot in the back yard out of sight of the upper bedrooms and nosy neighbors. In the swampy boggy patch where the briars thrived. It took a few hours, and Sherlock, being notoriously lazy attempted to shirk a few times. Mycroft’s steely gaze and the memory of his brother’s defense of him set him back to work. In their exhaustion, neither of them remembered to cover the grave with salt. By the time they remembered, it would be too late. 

Sherlock went to put Victor's car in the garage until they decided what to do with it, and Mycroft trudged to the back door. The screen door squeaked as he entered, and Mycroft was frantically thinking of a way to explain to Uncle Rudy and Mrs. Hudson why the both of them were utterly filthy at four-thirty in the morning.

Then he saw a note lying on the countertop. 

> _ Dearest boys, _
> 
> _ Rudy and I have gone to the expo in San Francisco. Last minute decision! We decided that, since it’s been such nice weather, we’re going to make it a road trip, take the long way there and back. _
> 
> _ See you in 2 weeks! _
> 
> _ Rudy and Martha _
> 
> _ p.s. I left you both some brownies in the breakfast nook for you, share with your brother. (Sherlock, welcome back, darling <3) _
> 
> _ p.p.s. I saw a mangy black cat roaming about - if you see him, set out the traps and take him to Dr. Hooper for a TNR. _
> 
> _ p.p.p.s don’t forget to feed the sourdough yeast. _

Mycroft put the letter back down for Sherlock to see. The stairway up to his bedroom in the attic seemed especially long. 

As the dark sky outside began to lighten, Mycroft took off his jacket, removed his shoes, shed the rest of his muddy clothes in a heap on the floor and laid himself down on the bed. 

He pulled the coverlet over his head, and the world went dark.


	3. Bishop's Opening

_ Sunday, April 12, 1992 _

Sherlock thought he was being clever, but Mycroft had known for days now. The wind blew strangely through the house when he was sweeping yesterday, and he thought he saw a sideways zig-zag in his tea leaves this morning. So today, he spent his day in the greenhouse. The window panes fogged up from the steam as he brewed a few items, but it kept the place warm enough that the spring chill was chased out of the air. He screwed the caps on and put together a knapsack, tucking in a few quick travel charms. He crushed and bagged some of the herbs Sherlock had dried - they were his; he should have them. Mostly useful things, and a little lavender just to be obnoxious, but Sherlock secretly liked it. 

*

Mycroft woke as the shutter banged. Sherlock hissed a quiet curse, then called softly out the window with a giggle, although Mycroft didn’t catch the words.

Mycroft tugged a blanket with him from his bed as he quickly crawled out and followed his brother to the balcony of their shared attic bedroom. Sherlock had already tossed one leg over, preparing to jump down, an easy move for him - he’d gone through another growth spurt recently, coming in just slightly taller than Mycroft, now. (Mycroft was both proud and irked, and Sherlock was irrepressibly annoying about it). 

As Mycroft joined Sherlock at the window he saw that some wayward rascal waited for Sherlock in the garden - motorcycle leathers and greasy hair marking him as Sherlock’s latest fling. There was always a new one to toy with, then discard. This one wouldn’t last any longer than the rest. 

“Sherlock,” he hissed, catching his brother’s elbow. 

Sherlock grinned at him with a puckish smile. 

“I’m getting out of here!” he hissed in delight. “Kiss the aunties for me, won’t you? Angelo says he’s taking me to California! He’s got a friend there with connections, he says. Knows a real PI. Says he’ll introduce me -and I can finally make it out of this _ fishbowl _.”

“Sherlock, it’s not safe out there,” he argued back. What is so wrong with stay here - staying with us.”

“I can’t live like this, Mycroft.” His face transformed into something anguished. “The staring, the whispers. Here, I’ll only be an Owens boy. The creepy magical gay. Everyone thinks they know me, and they don’t know a thing. They’re all so blind. I’ll go mad if I have to stay one more day.”

“But do you have to go with _ him? _Mycroft gestured angrily to the hooligan outside. “He’s standing on my basil!” he added indignantly.

“He’s my ticket, Mycroft. My ticket away from _here_. Once I get there, I can make my own name. Be whoever I want.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Except Sherlock was always serious about his conclusions. Decisions, once made, were never reversed. If he changed course, he never called it a mistake. Just “reevaluating the data.” Mycroft pressed heavier into Sherlock’s arm. He needed him to listen. Just for one minute of his life.

“Wait here, then,” he pleaded. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Of course you do - you’re such a fusspot.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t move.

“You’ll thank me later. Promise me you’ll wait for a second. It’s just under my bed.” 

Sherlock's expression sobered. “I promise.” 

It was a promise - Sherlock never said so unless he meant it. It meant he promised very little, but the times he gave his word were binding. 

Mycroft quickly ducked back inside and reached under his bed, grabbing the bag and rushing back to the balcony, knowing Sherlock was there behind the flying curtain, but fearful he was not. 

Mycroft handed the bag to Sherlock, but grasped hold of him again.

“Promise me,” he said again. “Promise me that you’ll come back.”

Sherlock sucked a lip between his teeth, then his eyes brightened. He tugged a knife out of his boot and grabbed Mycroft’s hand. 

Quickly, Sherlock slashed his palm, ignoring the impatient hissing from the boy down below. Stupid oaf. Sherlock would bore of him within weeks and find some new toy to play with. 

Mycroft took the knife when it was handed to him, and did the same on his own palm. Mycroft looked into Sherlock’s eyes, making sure. 

“You know there’s no going back,” he said. Of course he knew, but Mycroft had to make sure. They had planned this, but he hadn’t anticipated it would happen so soon.

Sherlock smiled at him, then clasped Mycroft’s hand in his own, pressing blood to blood. 

They had made pacts before, growing up, but a blood pact was different. When they were younger, they agreed to save this one for when Mycroft got married and moved away. Only Mycroft was the joke now. He was planted here, rooted fast, and Sherlock was the one escaping to freedom.

Quietly, they spoke the words together, simple but effective, the blood magic binding them together.

_ “My blood. Your blood. Our blood.” _

The simplest spells often had the most power, and between them both, Mycroft and Sherlock were nothing to laugh at. The air sizzled between them, smelling like petrichor.

The sky opened, and it began to rain.

Sherlock grinned, and let go. He wiped his bleeding palm over Mycroft’s shirt, then grabbed the bag Mycroft held out and jumped down, laughing as he met up with his paramour. The two of them ran for the idiot’s car, and Mycroft’s heart sank as the doors closed. He watched them pull away, rain trickling through his hair. Quickly, he put his hand over his sleeve, where Sherlock’s had been, blood to blood. 

*

_ Summer - Autumn 1992 _

Mycroft never expected to miss Sherlock quite so much. He and Sherlock had always been at odds with one another; his brother always trying to live life as loudly as possible, and Mycroft trying his best to keep him in one piece. Now with no one to look out for, Mycroft found his days impossibly boring. He dawdled in the greenhouse, growing, drying, transforming plants into useful ingredients. After a while he branched out into oils, then colognes and perfumes. Hand and lip balms. Soaps and lotions. 

Rudy and Martha sold them at the farmer’s market, and to the women who crept up to the back porch in the night, sometimes. He wasn’t one to brag, but his products were better than what you could find in the stores - the ones filled with cheap fragrance and alcohol. No, his were solid formulas, tested and tweaked until they were perfect; Sherlock wasn’t the only one talented at chemistry. The lotions were soothing, the balms comforting, the fragrances enticing. Each one made with a small touch of magic, just to enhance its potency, its longevity. Small magics - nothing harmful. Mycroft rarely performed big magics, and often the small ones were accidental. Intention, after all, could be a powerful instigator. 

Mostly, Mycroft followed Rudy and Hudson around town. Puttering around with the shopping, checking out the antique book shop, and daydreaming about that corner shop that’d been sitting empty for the past year. Nice big windows, attractive front door. Mycroft wondered what was wrong with it. 

The site had routinely changed hands almost yearly since Mycroft was small. First a hardware store, then a clothing boutique, then decorative glass, then an ice cream shoppe. Mycroft had always liked the location though. Perhaps…

He tucked a small, silly thought away for later. 

*

_ August 17, 1992 _

_ Brother Mine, _

_ I hope this letter finds you quickly enough that you haven’t moved on already. I’ve had several letters returned to me this year, and I’m enclosing them here, although they’re somewhat out of date now. _

_ The gossip about your departure hasn’t ceased. Small town minds, small town talk. The best rumor I’ve heard is that you’ve run away to bewitch congress. As though you had any interest whatsoever in politics. You know how it is. I envy your relief at having escaped it all, and perhaps I’ll plan a visit out to see you, provided you’d be willing to admit you know me in public for an afternoon. _

_ I’ve expanded our greenhouse to include a bigger workbench and a new stove so I can put together my concoctions without making the entire house smell like lemongrass - you know how it makes Mrs. Hudson sneeze. _

_ Uncle Rudy has taken up a small romance with the new clerk in the antique bookstore. I doubt it’s serious at all, and they’ve kept things quite discreet, but Martha and I are determined to meet this Mr. Chadwick and so we’ve invited him to dinner so we can interrogate his intentions like regular folk. Although, I suspect we should rather be interrogating Rudy instead. Mr. Chadwick seems altogether too nice to deserve suffering our insanity with any regularity. _

_ Uncle Rudy and Mrs. Hudson send their love, but you already knew that. _

_ I’ve put a small sachet with this letter for you. Take care to keep it with you this time, please. I worry. _

_ Please call, _

_ Your brother. _


End file.
